


Fire in the Veins

by glorious_spoon



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: “The ritual needs to be completed, or—”“Death by blue balls, right,” Richie finishes, laughing raggedly. “Fucking great. All of my high school jerk-off fantasies come true.”
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Everyone
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	Fire in the Veins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).



> This is a treat fic for **hearthouses** , based on a prompt for Richie being hit with sex pollen and everyone else having to fuck him. And that is... pretty much the whole fic. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Beverly’s hand is on the back of his neck, slim fingers stroking through the sweaty hair at his nape and also, not so incidentally, holding him so that his face is pressed against her throat and he can’t see anything other than luminous pale skin and humid darkness. He doesn’t know where his glasses went. His glasses, or any of the rest of his fucking clothes for that matter. Bev is pretty fucking naked too. He can feel the soft drag of her breasts, nipples hardened to small knots; the smooth planes of her belly as he ruts helplessly against her.

All things considered, it’s probably the most successful sexual encounter he’s ever had involving a woman. For a certain value of success, anyway. The fact that he’s so drugged and dazed that he’s only half-aware of anything outside of the burning desperate _need_ pulsing through his veins like liquid fire probably has something to do with it.

Maybe he should have tried some of this shit before one of his sad desperate college attempts to pretend he was straight.

Bev says something over his head that he can’t hear over the roaring in his ears, and Ben answers. The bed creaks as another body settles behind him, this one broad and masculine. Bev’s hand leaves his neck to reach back; he can feel the shift of muscle against his shoulder, and then Ben’s voice in his ear. “Hey, Rich. Is this okay?”

“Fucking _Christ_ ,” Richie chokes, which is apparently answer enough. Ben pushes closer, pinning Richie between them. His dick pushes against the small of Richie’s back, already half-hard, which Richie can only attribute to some ambient pheromones coming off of his skin, or maybe Bev’s gorgeous naked presence; there’s not a fucking thing about this that should be hot otherwise.

The fact that _Richie_ finds it hot is something that he’s going to stubbornly chalk up to whatever the fuck he’s been dosed with. Definitely not the way he was idly admiring Ben’s broad shoulders and tight ass at the Jade of the Orient earlier. _Fuck._

He can hear other voices, snippets of an argument. Mike’s voice, low and calm. Bill’s nervous stutter making a reappearance. Eddie, sharp and impatient.

“—read about this,” Mike is saying, “and if the records are correct it has to be all of us.”

Eddie’s response to that is lost in a wash of heat as Ben’s stubble scrapes the back of his neck. There’s a kiss pressed to his nape, careful and sweet, just like he would have expected Ben to be. A ragged moan drags itself from his throat, and Ben’s hand grips his hip, then starts to slide around across his belly, and Richie jerks between them, coming all over Bev’s stomach before Ben can even touch his dick.

It would be nice if that was the end of it, but he already knows it won’t be. Hasn’t been the last three times, and this is no exception. Blood pounds in his ears; he hasn’t even started to go soft. He’s still rutting against Bev, moaning at the slick feel of his own come.

“C-c-condoms?” Bill asks, somewhere else in the room.

“I don’t keep condoms in my first aid kit, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Eddie retorts waspishly.

Richie laughs raggedly into Bev’s throat. “This is some kind of fucked-up David Lynch fucking nightmare,” he mumbles. It’s maybe the most coherent thing he’s managed since this started. “Sorry.”

Ben strokes a hand up and down his back, and he can feel the shape of Bev’s smile as she presses a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know. It’s not so bad.”

“ _Not so bad_ , that’s what I want—fuck,” he gasps. “What I want to hear from all my dates. You guys seriously don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Richie, let us take care of you,” Ben says at the same time, all sweet sincerity that’s seriously fucking weird to hear under these circumstances.

There’s the sound of a door opening, then shutting. Footsteps in the room, and the bed shifts again as someone else settles on it. Bev moves away, leaving Richie’s front cold; he feels suddenly even more exposed, blind and naked and desperately hard. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again to see a warm brown blur that resolves itself after a moment into Mike. He’s stripped to his boxers and wearing an incongruously serious expression.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Richie chokes on a laugh, trying to curl in on himself. It’s not that easy with Ben draped over his back, extremely, distractingly naked. It’s not easy to stay focused on words when everything in him is drowning in animal sensation. Skin-hunger. He has a wild impulse to grab at Mike and drag him closer, and he curls his hands into fists to stop himself.

“On what _fucking planet_ is any of this okay?” he manages.

Mike smiles a little. “Fair enough,” he says, but he’s settling closer instead of pulling away. Blurrily, behind him, Richie can see Eddie stripping out of his polo shirt and khakis with quick, annoyed motions. A pale blur by the windows might be Bill.

There’s a lot of fucking nudity going on here all of a sudden. He thinks there was a conversation about this, but he can’t dig it up now.

“I think I lost the thread,” Richie mumbles.

“Yeah,” Mike says gently. He dips his head and presses a kiss to Richie’s mouth, soft but insistent. It doesn’t take much for Richie to open up to him, groaning helplessly into it. There’s a cold wash of shame an instant later, but he can’t bring himself to pull away until Mike does. Someone’s hand strokes through his hair; he thinks it might be Bev.

“Are you going to explain, or not?” Eddie says sharply overhead.

“Yeah,” Mike says again. “It’s a sex ritual. It needs to be completed, or—”

“Death by blue balls, right,” Richie says, and gasps laughter into Mike’s shoulder. “Fucking great. All of my sad gay high school jerk-off fantasies come true.”

He flinches the moment he says it. It’s not like they can’t all tell how turned-on he is, but he was kind of hoping he could blame it all on the drugs. Not the fact that at one time or another he’s looked at every single one of them and _wanted._

Not like _this._ But apparently his libido doesn’t really care.

Ben’s hands are on his hips again, pulling him close. His lean rangy body, the hot drag of his cock against the small of Richie’s back, and Richie wants, he just _wants_ —

“We’re not letting you die of _this_ ,” Eddie says. He leans past Mike to kiss Richie firmly on the mouth, like a punctuation mark. “Come on. We love you, you asshole.”

“W-what they said,” Bill says, and his hand joins Bev’s in stroking Richie’s messy hair, petting over his shoulders, both hot and soothing, and Richie—

Yeah. He’s definitely lost the thread here.

“Okay?” Mike says again, and it’s quiet but urgent, demanding an answer.

“Yeah, okay, fuck it, fine,” Richie mumbles, a quick slurred jumble of words. He feels drunk, dazed, almost mindless with need. Later, he’ll remember to be humiliated about it. “Just—please, _please_ —”

“We got you,” Mike says, and mercifully kisses him again before he can be reduced to real begging. There’s another discussion going on over his head about condoms and lube, which he can’t follow at all, and then there’s a slick hand gripping his cock and the sharp smell of latex, fingers pressing back and _in_ , and he chokes and comes all over Mike’s hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants into Mike’s warm shoulder, but whoever is finger-fucking him doesn’t stop until they’ve dragged another orgasm out of him. More voices, and the fingers are gone, replaced by the hot length of someone’s cock. He squirms desperately, trying to shove himself back, but whoever’s fucking him is being so slow and careful about it that he’s going to go out of his mind. More out of his mind than he already is.

“Jesus Christ, just _fuck_ me if you’re gonna do it,” he gasps. “I’ve fucking done it before, I can take it, _fuck_ —”

There was something in there that he wasn’t supposed to say, something he shouldn’t have admitted, but he’s already lost track of it as someone—Ben, maybe? It sounds like Ben—laughs raggedly into the back of his neck and shoves forward and the world vanishes in a hot rush.

Everything else comes in fragments. He’s vaguely aware of Mike moving away and Eddie taking his place, holding him close and kissing him and jerking him off with a careful precision that makes him ache. Bill’s voice in his ear, rough and jagged. Lips and tongues and heat and skin, a sweet rough friction that builds and focuses until the world seems narrowed to a single burning point. Until he can’t even tell how he’s being touched, or by whom—it’s all just so much, it’s so _fucking_ much—

He sinks in a hot red haze and surfaces some indeterminate amount of time later, weak and chilled, to someone helping him stand, swaying, barefoot on a cool tile floor. They’re in a bathroom, and someone is holding him up. Two someones. Eddie on his left and Bill on his right, both of them naked and warm. He feels—hollowed out, spent, shaky like he’s coming down off of a fever.

“—need help?” someone says from a distance away. It sounds like Mike.

“W-we have him,” Bill says. His arm wraps around Richie from the right side and bumps into Eddie on his left. “G-g-get his clothes, okay?”

“I’m right fucking here,” Richie mumbles, although he’s not sure it’s the truth. He feels like he’s floating. Like there’s a disconnect between his brain and his exhausted, sweaty, naked body.

“Rich?” That’s Eddie. He’s tucked up under Richie’s shoulder on the other side, just about the perfect height to fit there. They both are, actually. Short fuckers. “Come on. You really need a shower, dude.”

“...can’t stand up,” Richie mumbles into his hair. It’s not entirely accurate, since he’s standing up right now, but he’s pretty sure that if either of them let go of him he’d just slither right down to the floor. A sweaty, come-smeared, naked heap on the floor.

He’s too dazed and exhausted to feel much of anything, but there’s the germ of humiliation making itself known. The awareness, even if he can’t feel it yet, that he’s going to want to vanish off the surface of the earth rather than face any of them tomorrow.

For now, though, he just lets Bill and Eddie steer him gently toward the shower. He sags against Eddie as Bill leans into the tub to turn the water on, and Eddie scruffs his hair with one hand and says, quietly, “You doing okay?”

“No,” Richie mumbles back, horribly honest. “You?”

Eddie lets out a huff of laughter that sounds startled. Richie remembers rubbing up against him, the neat, compact lines of his body and his gentle hands, the way his breath had stuttered out hotly against Richie’s ear, then in again, sharp and startled. As if he was surprised by how good it felt.

“I don’t fucking know,” he says.

Richie nods into his shoulder. The lights of the bathroom seem to swim around him, and he can see Bill leaning into the shower, hand in the spray like he’s testing the temperature.

“Okay, it should be good,” he says, turning back toward him. He doesn’t seem embarrassed, but Richie’s probably too fucking out of it to tell if he’s faking it. He doesn’t hesitate about grabbing Richie by the shoulder and steering him into the tub, though, and that’s something.

He’s honestly expecting them to just close the door and let him figure it out, but they follow him in: first Bill, then Eddie, and neither of them is especially tall but it’s still cramped in the tiny hotel shower with all three of them. And it’s all Richie can do to stay upright, let alone try to wash off any of the humiliating evidence of the last few hours.

Eddie’s the one who takes the reins, briskly soaping him up, starting with his hair and working his way downward while Bill holds him up. Richie leans forward and breathes into the hollow of Bill’s collarbone, trying not to think about anything as Eddie runs the soapy washcloth over his chest, his sticky stomach, down between his legs where he’s sore and tender. There’s a warm loose well-fucked sensation that would ordinarily be a pleasant afterglow, but right now the reminder just makes him wince.

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs, and Richie shakes his head.

“‘S fine.”

Bill starts to say something, but before he can there’s a light knock on the bathroom door, and then Beverly’s voice. “I have pajamas for you guys, I’m leaving them on the sink.”

“Thanks, Bev,” Bill calls.

“You’re welcome,” she says back, and withdraws. Richie finally manages to find the strength to pull back, bracing himself heavily on the shower door.

“Okay, that’s enough, I’m fuckin’ clean,” he mutters, and stumbles out into the bathroom. He dries himself clumsily and pulls on the sweatpants and t-shirt Bev brought for him, grateful that he can’t see his own reflection in the steam-clouded mirror.

Bill and Eddie are out a moment later, and Richie doesn’t let himself look at them as they dry off and get dressed too. He sloshes mouthwash briefly, too tired to think about brushing his teeth and avoiding the look he knows Eddie is giving him, and makes his way out of the bathroom.

Of fucking course all the rest of them are still there. Someone has stripped the bed and got new bedding—Richie would dearly love to know how _that_ conversation with housekeeping went down—and Ben and Bev and Mike are all hanging out, freshly showered, looking soft and cozy in their pajamas and wet hair.

“Fuck all of this,” Richie says out loud, and heads for the door instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mike stand up.

“Richie—”

“Seriously, no,” he says, retreating. “I’m grateful to all of you, I really am, your sacrifice is appreciated, but I can’t fucking do this right now.”

He tries to steady himself on the door frame, misjudges the distance, and nearly goes down before Bill darts forward to catch him. His hands are very warm. Earlier, he cupped Richie’s face and kissed him while they—

“Let go of me, please,” Richie says in a very small voice, and Bill does, so quickly that it actually makes him feel worse. He braces himself against the door, eyes closed, then says, “Does anyone know where my glasses ended up?”

“Over here,” Ben’s voice says, but it’s Bev who approaches, a blur of bright hair and pale skin when he opens his eyes again. She puts his glasses in his hand, and he closes his fingers around them but doesn’t put them on. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually want to see anyone’s expression clearly right now.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles in the direction of the floor, then clears his throat and says, louder, “I’m—Jesus. I’m so fucking sorry about all this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie asks snappishly.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mike says at the same time, much more gently. There are several noises of assent, and he adds, “It could have been any of us. And you’d have done the same thing for us.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like any of you actually want—” Richie breaks off, jams the heel of his hand over his eyes, then says, “Fuck. Please forget I said that.”

“W-we can, if you want,” Bill says. “But it’s not—you don’t have to feel bad about it. You didn’t m-make us do anything.”

“Besides,” Bev adds before Richie can come up with an appropriately scathing response to that. “It’s not like that’s the weirdest thing we’ve all done together.”

Richie lets out a strangled laugh. “I’m really not sure how to feel about the fact that you just compared touching my dick to fighting an alien clown monster.”

Her smile is a sharp slice of white, and when she touches his arm, he lets her draw him into a careful embrace. Her damp hair smells like the same hotel shampoo Eddie just used on him, and she squeezes him with surprising strength before releasing him.

There’s a sharp noise as someone claps their hands. Eddie, Richie realizes a moment later, when he says briskly, “Okay, come on, Rich, you need to get some sleep. The rest of us—”

“We can go, if that’s what you want,” Ben says from somewhere over by the desk. “Or we can stay. It’s up to you.”

“You’re not sleeping in the hallway, either way,” Eddie adds. “Fucking deal with it. I had to explain why we needed new sheets to housekeeping over the phone, you wanna know how awkward that conversation was? Use the goddamn bed.”

Richie laughs again, a little more genuinely. Bill is still close enough to touch, and he reaches out to pat at his t-shirt-clad shoulder.

“Sorry, Big Bill.”

“Shut up,” Bill says gently, but he squeezes Richie’s shoulder back. “Come on. Bed. We’ll l-leave you alone.”

Richie lets Bill steer him over to the mattress and push him gently down onto it. He lets his glasses drop on the nightstand with a clatter, and sees the tall, towheaded blur that must be Ben lean to turn off the lamp. It’s late; there’s light coming in from the street lamp outside, but it’s not really enough to see by even if he had his glasses on. That makes it easier, somehow, for him to croak, “Look, you guys don’t have to—can you stay? Just for a little while?”

He feels more pathetic and exposed asking that than he did begging to be fucked an hour ago. Before he can open his mouth to take it back, though, Mike says, “Of course,” and sits down onto the bed close enough to rest his broad hand in the middle of Richie’s back. The mattress creaks again as someone else settles on it, then again and again: all five of them crowding onto a bed that definitely isn’t big enough to fit six grown adults. Crowding close: more hands land on his back, and someone—Bev, he thinks, by the slimness of the fingers—grips his knee firmly, anchoring.

For a moment, Richie shudders, overwhelmed by the sense memory of heat and skin and desperation, and then he tilts his head against someone’s shoulder and finally, finally lets himself breathe.


End file.
